


so this guy walks into a club

by orchidtotality (gayriot)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Implied/Referenced Sex, Jade is a Furry, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Run-On Sentences, Socially Awkward Dave, and no capitalization bc fuck proper grammar, artist dave (if you squint), club, dave is a cool guy and john totally has his chill in tact obviously, yolandi cut bc i have a hard on for yolandi visser.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 11:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8100697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gayriot/pseuds/orchidtotality
Summary: there is no punchline.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hi im alive yikes

he's got that look on his face, the one he adopts after he's had a couple drinks. a lopsided grin slipping on to his face, trying to be subtle, eyes that look almost black under the wash of the club lights seem to relax, just a tiny bit, with eyelids that droop ever so slightly and he looks like he could take a goddamn nap while the music that's thumped out of stolen speakers pounds away inside his chest. that son of a bitch just sits at the bar and strikes up a conversation with anyone willing to listen, once he's intoxicated enough. he's wearing that comfortable, sleepy look by the time he's on his second beer. he wears the fuck out of that bitch. wears her out like she's some cheap eye candy he has clinging to his arm that makes him look like he's having a pretty good time, just chilling with that bitch. you've come up with better metaphors than that, but there's only so much a guy running on 3 hours of sleep and a couple cherry cokes can manage. 

so this guy walks into a club, the club, your club. (*your sister's club.) he walks in with teeth clenched, shoulders up and locked, one sleeve anxiously pulled taut over tan knuckles, and then he just plops down on a bar stool and drinks until he finds his chill. your chill is seriously important dude. can't lose that shit. gotta find it, keep tabs on it, make sure it's home by 11 o'clock every night. put up some "lost chill" flyers around town if you happen to lose track of it, shits a basic necessity of life. find your chill, man.

you watch him from your safe perch on a counter in the kitchen behind the bar, perfect view of him through the small window on the door. whenever you bother to show up at this joint, you stick around and entertain your sisters, hiding away in the kitchen that's only used during the day when this place is just a restaurant, and you linger until it's time to close up shop. you help clean up whatever's left behind by the masses and then you skedaddle on back to your crummy apartment. according to roxy (you've caught that sneaky lil thing eyeing the guy who orders his confidence in a glass bottle on more than one occasion) he only shows up on the nights that you're there. you wonder briefly--just briefly, a mere second, cool guys like you don't "wonder" about other people--if he only comes on those nights because he can see that you're watching him and he wants to watch you, too. but that's pretty far-fetched. since you're not allowed to "wonder" about this guy for too long, you assume it's just coincidence.

this guy walks into the most bumpin' club around looking like he's been holding in his piss for two hours, and leaves with a look similar to that of someone who stopped giving any fucks and just pissed all over the place. you wonder if he holds in his metaphorical piss just so he can come here to metaphorically relieve himself. you wouldn't be surprised if he does use his time spent at the bar as his cool down time. 

you've spent too long thinking about his metaphorical piss for it to be tolerable.

one day, you find yourself staring too intensely at the way the blue lights catch on his dark hair and focusing too long on the way he holds his first beer with both hands like a total goober; it makes you slide off the counter (the first time you've moved your fine ass off of the cold tile before he left since you first noticed him at the bar) and call up a girl who modeled for a figure drawing class you took once. 

 

jade is into some freaky shit.

when you met her, she was butt naked and posing in front of a bunch of nerdy art kids trying to draw the cellulite on her thighs perfectly. she was dark skin that glinted under the harsh fluorescent lights and green eyes that stared at everything like a dog about to jump up. her wild hair, almost black and sticking out in a way that reminded your nerdy art kid brain of leaves and the forest, fell down her back and swept to a stop at the small of her back. she's beautiful, sure, everyone could see that. but not in the way you wish she was--it wasn't like you looked at her and could see yourself dating this chick or even being friends. she screamed quiet dominance and outgoing-ness and all she looked like was a fun lay. you thought that she was probably into dominating men and topping like a goddamn warrior. 

long story short, she turned out to simply be a furry.

the first time you fucked, all she wanted was some growls from you. okay, you can work with that, everyone has their kinks, and growling was somewhat hot...you guess. the second time, she wore a headband with a pair of faux wolf ears that she'd hot-glued on herself. she'd also brought a buttplug with a tail on it. a lot of things happened. she asked you to bark and then called you a "bad doggy" when you refused. go figure. 

meeting her for a quickie though, that was something different. far less private, far less time for her to gather up her vibrating wolf-tail plug or the leash she'd mentioned a few times. a quick fuck in the bathroom of the gas station you were meeting at, where you knew she'd be too scared to make you man's best friend lest she be exposed to the public. 

it took about fifteen minutes, and then you shot out of there quicker than you slid out of your mom's birth canal, or what the fuck ever. how are you supposed to make good metaphors when you just fucked a furry because you stared at a guy's hair for just a little too long? you left her doubled over the grimy sink, still catching her breath. you'll probably never call her again, which is a shame since she seemed like she would've made an okay friend. or acquaintance, rather. you don't particularly make friends. 

one call from roxy, questioning why you'd left earlier than usual, three calls from rose, which you blatantly denied, and then you were back in your crummy apartment all snuggled up in the over-sized hoodie you substitute for a blanket. 

 

"go sit at the bar."

rose is seated right next to you on the counter, maybe closer than you'd consider comfortable, with one dainty, pale hand resting on your shoulder. her eyes--they're a super fuckin' light blue, they look almost lilac, and that shit makes you squirm next to her--are trained on yours; your eyes are looking everywhere but hers. 

"why the fuck would i do that? this is my corner. get off my turf, bitch."

"as much as i would enjoy to engage in a musical turf war with you, david, i would rather do such a thing after you've seated yourself at the bar instead of shutting down back here."

you scoff. "shutting down? i'm just chillin', girl, takin' some me time. you've got a tentacle so far up your ass i wouldn't expect you to know the meaning of chilling, so i'll let it slide. don't worry 'bout little ol' me, yolandi."

a soft smile forms on her face at the nickname, like she's holding back a laugh, and she reaches up to touch her own haircut as soon as you mention the name. her hair is sick. the sickest. that's a bitchin' yolandi cut. 

"such flattery will get you nowhere, strider. please, at least sit at the bar for thirty minutes. if only to ease my thoughts."

she's put on a look you'd like to call "underlying intentions." there's a facade of genuine concern on her mug, yes, but there's also something else in her smile, as if she expects something that you don't. 

"or, if you'd rather remain here with me, i'd be delighted to tell you about the book on dark magics i recently acquired--"

you stand up to head for the bar.

 

honestly, you aren't sure why you didn't realize it earlier. rose totally set you the fuck up, that bitchy broad. she doesn't deserve the yolandi cut. 

the guy you've practically been creeping on for a while now walks in about ten minutes after you've sat down and ordered a beer, steps stuttering when he notices you (you're sitting in his usual seat--you feel like a total dickwad right now); he sits down one seat over, leaving enough room considered respectable for strangers, and he's bathed in blue lighting again. the bartender has seen enough times to know what he'll order. there's a bottle placed in front of him before he can even ask for it. 

he grabs it with both hands, as if it were a baby bottle. ridiculous. 

this guy walks into your (sister's) club and drinks one and a half beers before he says a word to you.

"i see you've finally left the kitchen to stalk me from up close. i'm surprisingly okay with this."

you blink dumbly, sparing him a side glance. he's got one eyebrow turned up and he's looking at you, waiting for a response, fingers tapping on the linoleum. you practically shiver at the thought of having a conversation with this guy. there's a newfound heat in your face now, you can feel yourself burning up. bastard probably gave you a fever or some shit. 

you clench your teeth. "uh," you toy with your belt loops, "yeah." the amount of seconds that pass as he stares at you are a clear give away that he was astounded by your extensive vocabulary and incredibly intelligent response.  
"i, uh, wait, i don't stalk you."

"sure you do. i see you every time i come in here."

"uh."

 

john's hands become more skilled, more accustomed to your body after about a month. 

he's all nipping teeth and quick fingers that drag across your spine, index fingers fitted to the back dimples you have, he's a sharp tongue that numbers every one of your freckles, pouty lips that latch on to yours and tear out breathy gasps because that's what you feel like around him, you feel like you can breathe. his eyes, bluer and brighter than the club lights and no longer washed out in the dim setting, enjoy watching you writhe and squirm underneath him, or in his lap, wherever he has you. he nips at your earlobe whenever you get too chatty in the beginning, reminding you to just _relax, dummy, breathe, you idiot ___. when your back arches, his does with you, and it reminds you that your breaths are in sync, you aren't the only one here feeling this way.

this guy walks into a club one day, and then he's fucking you into oblivion and making you breakfast in the morning the next.

**Author's Note:**

> im not giving up on other fics (specifically hallow the sons) i swear  
> why am i so bad at endings tho


End file.
